


The Gambling Man

by Evergreene



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Hurt!d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural Elements, protective!musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2726528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after The Challenge. Unfortunately for d’Artagnan, Porthos learns the only sure thing about luck is that it will change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gambling Man

**Author's Note:**

> This is something rather different for me in this fandom, but I wanted to write a fic about d'Artagnan and Porthos to pair with my ones about his being in peril with Aramis and Athos alongside, and this is what came out. I hope you enjoy and feedback is greatly appreciated! 
> 
> NB. The verse at the start is taken from 'Hoist the Colours' by Hans Zimmer.

_Some men have died and some are alive;_  
 _and others sail on the sea._  
 _With the keys to the cage_  
 _and the devil to pay,_  
 _we lay to the fiddler's green._

 

The soft slap of waves against the docks outside is the only sound as Porthos draws his last card and lays it on the table, face down. At his shoulder, d’Artagnan is perched backwards on his chair, tense and waiting, and around them presses a silent crowd, half-hidden in flickering shadows thrown by the dying fire as it crackles to itself in a murky corner of the sea-side tavern known as _The Fiddler’s Green_.

Drumming his fingers on the table, Porthos raises an eyebrow at his grim-faced opponent. ‘You know you’re facing your last chance to back out here.’

The man merely snarls, spittle flying as he slams his fist on the table. ‘Get on with it then!’

He shrugs. ‘Your funeral.’ Slipping d’Artagnan a surreptitious wink, he reaches out, flips the card and chuckles as the drunken crowd erupts.

\---------------

It takes a long while, but finally the tavern’s other patrons have drifted away home and he is left sitting before a pile of silver coins that gleam dully on the dark wooden table-top that is etched with nicks and scars from years of use. With a satisfied sigh, he leans back in his seat and hooks his hands in his belt. ‘How’s that for a night’s work, eh?’

Next to him, d’Artagnan shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Not bad, I suppose. For you.’ The smile that tugs at his lips as he gets up for another drink betrays him, however, and Porthos chuckles before twisting round to speak to Aramis and Athos, ensconced at a table by the fire where they have been nursing their drinks all evening.

‘See what I did there?’

‘You’re a bad influence on d’Artagnan,’ Athos informs him, taking another sip of his deep red wine. He’s drinking in moderation tonight, for him at least, and Porthos is glad of it, not wanting to sour the evening by dragging Athos back to his quarters and putting him to bed yet again.

Aramis’ response is little better from where he is sunk in his chair almost on top of the fire, legs stretched out to the crackling flames and his hat tipped forward over his eyes. ‘My admiration for your skills is boundless, Porthos,’ he murmurs, sounding almost asleep and entirely unimpressed. ‘Can you not tell?’

Porthos snorts. ‘You’re just jealous, the both of you,’ he declares, turning back to his winnings and beginning to count up the coins.

He is halfway through piling them into stacks when he hears the low bench opposite him scrape along the floorboards and a body settle into it. He looks up. There is a man sitting there. He is bony and narrow, with greying hair that straggles loose over his back and a small dark goatee that outlines a pointed chin. Wrapped in a cape that is little more than rags, he carries the scent of the sea with him – wet nights and rotting fish and the tang of salt overhanging it all, cutting through the dampness of the tavern. Put together, he looks like nothing so much as a bedraggled sea-bird dragged in from a summer storm … and he smells about the same.

Reckoning the man can bare afford to lose his money, Porthos weighs his options. He’s made enough to be getting on with, for some months even if he’s careful, so there’s no reason to play another game. On the other hand, luck’s been with him that night and he’s got the feeling he can push it a bit further yet. Still, he’s always prided himself on being a fair man, and it’s for that reason that he raises an eyebrow. ‘You sure about this?’

The man shrugs, his bony shoulders rising high, skeletal-like. ‘Can’t an old man test his fortune?’ He grins widely, revealing a gap where his front teeth used to be. ‘Or is that the province of the young these days?’

Struck by the old man’s humour, Porthos returns the grin. ‘I’m just saying, I haven’t lost a game tonight. Thought it only fair to warn you.’

‘Fair is as fair does,’ the man returns. ‘I’ll trust my luck. The name’s Jacques.’

They shake hands as Jacques settles down onto the bench, all limbs akimbo and bony elbows. Porthos can feel his eyes on him, roving over the fleur-de-lis at his shoulder, the pistol holstered at his waist and lingering on the sword that is sheathed, as always, at his side. Jacques’ eyes gleam bright as he stares at it, almost catching silver in the cloudy light echoing from the single window set up in the rafters. He looks suddenly envious.

‘That’s some weapon you’ve got there,’ he says. His voice is the sound of chains rattling over a wet dock, rough and rhythmic, and his accent is finer that those usually found round the docks. ‘A musketeer such as yourself must be proud to own its like.’

Porthos glances down at it, registering its familiar weight. ‘It’s a good sword, sure enough,’ he replies, putting a possessive hand on its hilt. ‘Saved my life a whole heap of times.’

They are interrupted by d’Artagnan, who rolls his eyes at Porthos as he walks by, cup in hand but deposits another on the rickety table before joining Athos and Aramis at the fire.

Jacques looks after him, craning his neck over his narrow shoulder. ‘Friend of yours?’

Porthos nods, drawing his cup in close and lifting it in a toast that d’Artagnan returns, the flickering glow of the fireplacee glinting off his stiff leather pauldron as he raises his arm. ‘You’d be right there. A good one. Just earned his own way into the regiment a couple of days ago. You should have seen him – he took on a man twice his size like it was nothing, right before the King himself.’

Jacques’ forehead crinkles as he watches d’Artagnan stow his drink on the piece of driftwood that serves as a mantel before bending forward to warm his hands at the fire. ‘He looks like he’s got a few good years left in him yet. Known him long?’

Porthos tilts his head, considering. ‘Matter of fact, no. We only met him a few months back – came storming in like nothing you’ve seen.’ He chuckles at the memory, taking a sip of his drink, feeling it slide down warm inside him. ‘But he just seemed to fit, you know? Filled a gap none of us knew was there.’

Jacques gives him a gummy smile. ‘In all my years, I’ve not been fortunate enough to be part of something like that. You’re a lucky man.’ He pauses, then leans forward so that Porthos is treated to a whiff of bad breath. ‘What’s your bet then?’

Porthos eyes his coins, then collects a half-dozen in his hand and drops them on the table. They clink against each other, hard and bright, but to his surprise Jacques shakes his head.

‘I don’t deal much in coins,’ he says. ‘They’re not much use to me, you see.’ He cocks his head, bird-like. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take that what you’re proudest of.’

Porthos glances down at his sword with a frown, slides a hand down to rest on its hilt. ‘You mean-?’

‘Nothing risked, nothing earned. It’s what I live by.’

He chews on his lip for a moment, weighs the possibilities. ‘And in return?’

Jacques’ eyes gleam bright and from between his skeletal fingers appears a single gold coin, shining sharp and unfamiliar.

Porthos raises an eyebrow. ‘Thought you said you didn’t use coins.’

‘True enough. And that means I’ve got an awful lot of them to give away, see?’ Reaching under his cape, Jacques draws out a handful more, placing them on the table one by one. They gleam in the low lamplight as though wet, making a prime fool of his own small silver hoard, and Porthos can’t help himself. He reaches forwards, picks one up, presses it to his teeth gentle as he can. It’s real as he is, even if he’s not seen its type before.

He looks back at Jacques, his eyes narrowed. ‘You sure about this?’ he demands. A gambler he may be, but that doesn’t mean he wants to go cheating innocent old men out of house, home and a treasure the likes of which he’s rarely seen.

Jacques nods, slow and thoughtful. ‘I once heard something that’s stuck with me all the years I’ve been in this good world - there’s no use playing unless you’ve got something to lose.’

Porthos considers this for a moment, then, decided, he slides his cards out of his jacket and the game is on.

\---------------------

He loses the first draw. Then the second. And the third.

Over by the fire, d’Artagnan coughs.

He wins the next draw, then loses two rounds in a row.

Behind him by the fire, d’Artagnan clears his throat before continuing his conversation with Athos. In the corner, a scrawny-looking dog thumps its tail against the floor - once, twice, thrice. Porthos glances at it and curses under his breath. It’s bad luck for a dog to be in the room during a card game and he can’t think why he didn’t notice it before.

He turns his attention back to the game. Jacques is a master, no doubt about it. He hums off-key to himself and shuffles the cards like a demon, leading all the while with his left hand. No matter what, Porthos can’t seem to predict his next move, and he swears loudly as he loses again.

‘Language, Porthos,’ comes Aramis’ voice, still lulled and sleepy. ‘Young d’Artagnan’s ears are burning.’

Jacques chuckles, then glances over towards the fireplace as d’Artagnan starts coughing again, harsher this time, having tried and failed to make a retort.

‘Your friend’s not sounding too good there,’ he says, casual-like.

‘Must be the soot or something,’ Porthos mutters, intent on his hand, which is one of the worst he’s ever been dealt in all his years as a card-player.

Again Jacques deals and again Porthos loses. He’s sitting upright now, straight-backed, knowing he’s but a few bad cards away from losing the finest weapon he’s ever owned. D’Artagnan is coughing worse than ever, his breath coming in rasps that are painful to listen to, and Porthos twists round to glance at him, distracted from the game. Beside d’Artagnan, Athos is frowning and has set down his drink, and even Aramis has stirred, pushing his hat back on his head and heaving himself upright as he stares at d’Artagnan in surprise.

‘Are you quite well?’ he says curiously, yet there is a clunk as d’Artagnan’s cup drops to the floor and a moment later d’Artagnan has joined it, his body racked with coughs as he falls to his knees. Realising it’s not just the soot messing with him, Porthos shoves his chair back, but before he can stand Jacques has reached across the table and grabbed his wrist, his fingers wrapping about tight and painful.

‘I’ll tell you right now, friend, you can’t help him.’

Porthos stills. ‘What was that?’ he says.

Jacques grins, sudden and sharp. ‘I said that you won’t be able to help the boy. No one will, not even your friends over there. Not ‘til the game’s done.’

Athos and Aramis are sitting up straight now. Athos looks like his gaze could cut glass, and Aramis is tense and still, the usual curl of humour that lingers about him completely gone as his eyes flick between Jacques and d’Artagnan, who’s managed to gain his feet and is pushing his hair back from his eyes as he sways, still unsteady, reaching out to the wall.

Porthos shakes off Jacques’ hand, glares at him. ‘This some kind of joke?’ He gestures to d’Artagnan. ‘My friend’s not well. I’m gonna help him, card game or no.’

Jacques nods as though to himself. Then, with one swift move, he flicks a bony finger at d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan crashes back against the wall like he’s been kicked in the ribs before dropping to the floor with a groan, where he immediately curls over himself as he starts to cough once more, deep and racking as he struggles to draw breath.

Porthos is on his feet, sword drawn, before he even knows what’s happening. ‘What have you done to him?’ he demands, watching Aramis cast his hat aside as he ducks down by d’Artagnan’s side, gripping his shoulder as he tries to get his attention, his face tight and anxious.

‘I think you know,’ Jacques says, and he tilts his head towards d’Artagnan. ‘You lose, so does he.’

All the air goes out of Porthos’ lungs, his mind whirling. ‘What are you?’ he gets out.

Jacques smiles, and waves a hand towards the tavern’s lone window where a cloud has sailed aside to reveal the full moon and its rays, which fall on him for the first time. At once, Porthos takes a step backwards. His opponent’s eyes have turned a glass-blown green, the self-same colour as the sea, and his skin is parchment-white, same as his beard and the hair that’s now held back in thousands of tiny plaits braided with the thinnest bones he’s ever seen.

He shakes his head. ‘This ain’t real,’ he breathes.

The man, the _thing_ , chuckles, sending the bones rattling against each other, a chill sound that makes the hairs on the back of Porthos’ neck stand up. ‘I beg to differ,’ he says. His voice has changed too – becoming deep, darker and laced with the noise of waves crashing against the shore.

Porthos shakes his head again, unwilling to believe, but knowing, deep down, that he is seeing something most people would dismiss as a legend. ‘The bet was for my sword.’

‘Not a word passed my lips about having your sword. What I said was I’ll have what you’re proudest of. And that’s him. Or have you forgotten how you felt as you watched the king _welcome_ him to the ranks of the Musketeers? It was a proud moment for you, after all. You’d seen how he trained, how he tried, and you’d thrown so much of yourself into him, ever since you met the little rat-’

There’s a sudden crash and Porthos knows that behind him Athos is on his feet, his chair toppling back as he draws his sword with a rasp of steel.

‘I never agreed to this,’ he says, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. ‘I never _bet_ d’Artagnan.’

‘You did. You just didn’t know it.’ Jacques smirks, the bones in his hair clattering softly as d’Artagnan starts to cough again. ‘It’s how the game works. Now will you be playing or not?’

His heart racing, Porthos looks towards his friends. Aramis is on his knees besides d’Artagnan, his fingers pressed desperately to his throat as he searches for an invisible pulse. Athos is standing in front of them, his sword trained on Jacques and his expression grim, but Porthos can see the fear in his eyes as d’Artagnan begins to choke once more, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth to land in spatters on the wooden floorboards. None of them have ever faced an enemy like this before, and he knows that for once his friends can’t help him.

He spins round. ‘Alright!’ he bellows. ‘Alright. I’ll do it. Just … just let him breathe, yeah?’

He steps forward, sits down at the table without a word, forcing himself not to look as he hears d’Artagnan’s coughs subside. His nerves are jangling, but he collects his cards, arrays them before him and takes a breath. ‘Let’s play.’

\------------------

It seems an age passes before Jacques deals for the last time, drawing his final card and placing it on the table, face-down.

Porthos does the same. He’s finally caught up, winning three rounds in a row now, and d’Artagnan has regained some of his strength with each victory, and is now on his knees, supported by Athos and Aramis as they watch the game, silent and steely-eyed.

The extra cards that Porthos usually keeps tucked up his sleeve sit abandoned on the table. His mind had strayed to them, only once, and immediately d’Artagnan had begun to choke, his mouth open and empty as Aramis cursed and Athos pulled his pistol and fired a shot that went straight through Jacques’s shoulder and into the chair behind.

Jacques had smiled. ‘I like to keep it honest, you see,’ he had said calmly. ‘And that’s your warning done with. Try it again and I’ll tear the boy’s lungs out while he’s still using them.’

So Porthos had ripped the cards from his sleeve, thrown them across the table and continued playing.

Now they are mere points apart as Jacques turns his card over. It’s a seven, and Porthos curses as he takes in the luckiest of numbers lying on the table before him. With one last look at his friends, he reaches for his own card, knowing he needs a nine to draw, or higher to win. His hand trembling, he turns it over, and the regal face of a king stares back at him.

There is silence for a moment, then Athos and Aramis are on their feet and pulling d’Artagnan up and away as Porthos stands, one hand going for his sword and the other upsetting the table, destroying all evidence of the game.

Jacques heaves a sigh and clambers to his feet, wrapping his cloak about himself like a shroud. ‘Looks like my words proved true,’ he says. ‘You’re a lucky man, Porthos du Vallon. There’s not many men who play me and win.’

Porthos steps backwards until he’s standing shoulder to shoulder with Athos and Aramis, forming a barrier with d’Artagnan propped against the wall behind them. ‘Get out.’

Jacques starts to speak again, but at once there is the rasp of steel and two more blades appear, gleaming sharp and bright.

‘Leave know and we won’t kill you.’ That is Athos, calm and level as he moves forward with Aramis beside him, leaving Porthos to press d’Artagnan back against the wall with his shoulder, praying that this is the end of it.

Jacques grins. ‘I’d like to see you try,’ he says, but he turns his back and within moments is gone, lost to the fading light of the moon as it disappears behind some clouds.

Porthos waits a beat, then reaches back blindly and grabs d’Artagnan’s elbow, tugging him behind him as he makes for the exit, knowing that Athos and Aramis have gathered their effects and are covering them, swords and pistols drawn. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, just shoves d’Artagnan through the door and keeps going until the sound of lapping waves has faded into the distance, drowned out by the sound of pattering rain which has just started to dampen the ground.

They move through the streets in silence and finally come to a halt pressed against the side of the local inn, from which is trickling the faint sound of music and raucous laughter. Together, he, Aramis and Athos surround d’Artagnan, who bends over, one hand wrapped about his throat, rubbing at it as though trying to reassure himself he’s still alive. They look at each other.

‘What-’ Aramis starts, his face white under the dripping brim of his hat.

‘I don’t know,’ says Athos, glancing over his shoulder at the misty street behind them.

Porthos ignores them. ‘You all right?’ he growls at d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan nods, still unsteady. ‘I’ve been better,’ he rasps, sounding as though something’s scraped the back of his throat rough and bloody. ‘What was that thing?’

‘Nothing I would ever wish to meet again,’ admits Aramis, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.

Athos just shakes his head and turns to scan the street again, his shoulders tight, as uneasy as Porthos has ever seen him.

He realises that d’Artagnan is looking up at him, his face pale as he straightens up and tries for a grin that turns out more as a grimace. ‘You left your winnings behind.’

Porthos snorts. ‘There are worse things to lose,’ he says gruffly. ‘Come on. We’re going home. And stay close, you hear me?’

And they leave without looking back.


End file.
